


The Third Door

by greenpen



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 09:51:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3891850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenpen/pseuds/greenpen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He walks down the path until he hears the door shut behind him, around the corner, where his car is parked. It’s the same place he sat for hours listening for any kind of movement, any sound. It feels meaningful to him, because again there’s no trace of her. But it’s not. And he can’t yet grasp there are two different kinds of disappearing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Third Door

There were three doors.  

The first: red, with brass knocker. He doesn’t remember ever using it. He ambles on the brick steps, trying his hardest not to eavesdrop, lean in to hear what’s on the other side.  

No answer still. 

He knocks again, then hears footsteps. 

The door opens, and a man answers. He is tall, middle-aged, maybe a few years older than himself, salt and pepper hair. He pushes his sleeves up over his elbows. 

“Can I help you?” he asks. 

He looks behind him, two cardboard boxes in the entryway. One labeled “BOOKS,” the other “HALL CLOSET.” 

“Is—I’m looking for Carrie Mathison.” When he doesn’t get a response, he adds, “She used to live here.” Then: “I guess.”  

“We just moved in a few weeks ago.” 

“Do you know when she moved out?” 

“I only ever met with the leasing agent. A month or so ago, at least.” 

Quinn nods, notices the walls in the living room, painted white now. 

“I can give you the leasing agent’s number. She might know how to contact her,” the man offers. 

“No. Thanks. That’s alright… Thanks.” 

He turns on his heel then, knowing any contact information she gave the leasing agent is at least as outdated as his own. 

He walks down the path until he hears the door shut behind him, around the corner, where his car is parked. It’s the same place he sat for hours listening for any kind of movement, any sound. It feels meaningful to him, because again there’s no trace of her. 

But it’s not. And he can’t yet grasp there are two different kinds of disappearing. 

. . . . 

The second door: white, wrought iron handle. He walks up the driveway, wind biting at his skin, past the remnants of pink rose bushes, now just bare skeletons, wound up the wall. He can almost hear her voice in the distance, something faint but _there_.  

Some small but essential part of himself knows she’ll answer. She’ll probably be mad. 

_Why did you leave? Where did you go? I was so worried about you. I know, it was scary. But it’s all over._

It doesn’t hit him, that this has happened before. That this has happened before to him, and to her—to both of them. 

He rings the bell, expects to hear cries in the distance, someone woken from her nap prematurely. 

A little girl answers instead. He hesitates: how best to play it? 

“You’re Josie, right?” he says. Her hair is in French braids and she’s wearing cleats and shin guards. 

“Who are you?” 

“I’m Peter Quinn. I’m a friend of your Aunt Carrie.” 

No recognition, still. It all feels like some strange fever dream, like a search for someone who never really existed. 

“Is she here?” 

The girl pauses, seeming to weigh how much to tell this stranger. “…No.” 

Then, a familiar voice: “Josie?” 

The girl turns, toward her mother, coming around the staircase, almost stopping dead in her tracks at the sight of him. 

“Go help your sister set the table,” she says, coming up behind her, placing her hand on her shoulder. Josie looks up at her mother, then back at Quinn, this tall man and his unkempt hair and wrinkled shirt, untucked. 

“Go,” Maggie says when she still doesn't move. “And take your cleats off in the house!” she calls after her. 

Quinn smiles, that half-smile, barely there. 

“Hi, Maggie,” he says, which feels oddly casual. But he feels in a way as if he does know her, that some intangible intimacy has been transferred onto him by Carrie herself. He knows their stories. 

“Hi, Peter.” 

She steps forward to shut the door behind them and he takes a step backward to allow her the space. It’s an odd little dance. 

“I’m looking for Carrie,” he says, in case she needs an explanation.

“I know. I’ve been expecting you.” She says it the way a mother would, omniscient. 

“Can you tell me where to find her?” 

Maggie inhales, puts her hands in her pockets as if to stall. What’s really amazing is that he has no idea. 

“I’m sorry,” she says.  

He just looks at her, tries to find any fragment of Carrie but can’t. Maybe because she’s not there, or maybe because he’s forgotten what to look for. 

“For what?” 

For a split second he thinks that, wherever Carrie’s gone, she’s asked Maggie not to tell him where to come find her. He suspects he’ll have to knock on a dozen more doors, track her cell phone, interrogate a few more people. He bets Max knows. 

“She’s not here. She left. She moved to Berlin.” 

“Berlin?” 

“Yes. A few months after you both got back from the Middle East.” 

“She’s with Franny?” 

“Yes.” 

“What’s she doing there?” 

She pauses. “Consulting.” 

A million more questions swirl in his head—things to ask, even if she doesn’t know the answers—but all he can think of is the black cardigan sweater she wore that night, pushed up on her arms, and how her lips tasted: like whiskey and orange, against his skin, her fingers tight around his sleeve. 

“Do you have her address?” he asks finally, his voice nearly cracking in his throat, dry and searching. 

“Sure,” Maggie says. She turns and opens the door. He can feel the warmth from the house. He hesitates for a moment and follows her in. She walks into the kitchen, but he stays at the foot of the stairs, admiring the pictures lined along the wall. A few of Frank, family portraits, one he knows is Carrie, toothy grin, backwards baseball cap. He stares, transfixed, tries to imagine Carrie as a kid. 

He thinks about her mother. 

Maggie comes around the stairs then, holding a folded piece of paper. 

“Her address. Phone number, too.” 

He opens it up and it’s her handwriting, scrawled in black ink, across the blue lines. Did she leave this for him? He runs the pad of his thumb over the lettering, feels the faint indentation. 

“Is she ok?” he asks. It’s the only thing he’s thought about for the last six months but the first time he’s vocalized it.  

“I think so. I think she’s ok.” 

He looks up at her then and sees it: the fragment. Tight-lipped smile as she nods her head slowly. _This is what I can give you, but only this._

“Good.” 

He folds the paper back up again and sticks it in the inside pocket of his jacket. 

“Thanks,” he says. 

“Sure.” 

He nods his head and turns for the door.  “You know, Frank’s wake… it wasn’t the first time we met?” he says then, his hand gripping the doorknob. 

“Hm?” 

“The first time we met. Or, for me anyway. I saw you… at Carrie’s commitment hearing. Last year. With Frank.” 

He doesn’t know why he’s telling her this, that even then he was lurking the shadows, unnoticed. But it feels significant to him, attesting to it. _I was there for her_ , he wants to say. _I’m not a bad guy._

Maggie doesn’t respond, just frowns at him like she feels sorry, and he takes that as cue to leave, the address she’d written down for him making a permanent home in the pocket of his coat. 

. . . . 

In front of the third door, dark green, brass mail slot in the center, is a man, two years older, his hair thinning at the back, his shirt tucked in, nice shoes, ironed khakis.  

This is the not the same address he received so many months ago. That one led him here, to number sixteen and the green door with the brass mail slot. 

Inside he can hear the very soft tell of Coltrane and he knows this is the right door, not that it took much searching. 

He swallows dry. There’s a pit in his stomach. 

He wonders what she looks like now, what’s changed or what’s the same. He imagines her hair short, wearing a sundress and flat sandals, even though it’s November. 

He knocks on the door, trying to find a rhythm to his movements. But everything feels fractured, his consciousness seeming to fade in and out. 

He waits a moment and listens closely, hears footsteps on the other side of the threshold, a light step, rubber on wood. 

A man opens the door. 

He is tall with dark hair like his, but longer, with the scruff of a man who shaves once a week. He’s wearing a grey t-shirt and blue jeans, a kitchen towel draped over his shoulder. He wipes his hand on the towel.

“Hi,” Quinn finally says. “Is—does Carrie Mathison live here?” 

“Who are you?” He speaks with an accent, not heavy. He sounds like all the European men he’s known who have spent their whole professional lives speaking English. 

“My name is Peter Quinn.” He pauses. “I’m a friend. Of Carrie’s.” 

“Please, come in.” The man steps aside as Quinn walks through the entry. “It is quite cold outside,” he says, shutting the door behind them. 

The man extends his hand. “I’m Jonas.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Quinn says, looking around. The house is warm and narrow, filled with the sound of saxophones. 

“Let me take your coat,” Jonas says. Quinn unzips his jacket and adjusts the cuffs on his shirt. 

“Thanks.” 

“They are just upstairs,” Jonas says. “Come after me.” 

He leads them up the stairs, which can’t be more than two feet wide, the wood creaking under each step. 

“Darling,” Jonas says—which stings in an unexpected way—just as their heads become visible above the top step, “You have a visitor.” 

It’s just then that his concentration breaks, as something recalibrates in the air. It takes him a moment to realize the music has stopped and everything is silent. He all of a sudden feels horribly out of place and considers bolting for a second, turning back from where he came, before he remembers he’s already told him his real name and she’d certainly know. 

“On a Sunday?” is the first thing he hears. And the first thing he sees is the back of her head, golden hair, shorter than he’s ever seen it, just below her shoulders, a few strands tucked into the back of her sweater in an adorable, casual, forgetful way.  

She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of Franny, who’s laying on her stomach coloring. She runs her hand through her hair and turns, a flash of a smile fading. 

“Hi, Carrie,” he says. It’s easier than he thought it would be. The corners of his mouth twitch as if in a smile but he stops himself. 

She stands then, abruptly, and begins fidgeting with her fingers, twisting a ring in circles. 

Jonas approaches Carrie, and Quinn follows. Carrie looks back at Franny, tentative, then meets them halfway. 

Finally she says, “Hi.” A pause. “Quinn.” 

She shifts her weight and looks him up and down. He looks older. His hair is shorter, less in the front than she remembers. His shirt—crisp, white, the collar buttoned down. His shoes: suede, laced tightly. Leather watch. 

He looks very different than she remembers. 

He does something then and he’s not sure why, leans forward and stretches out his arms, hugs her tightly. She pulls her arms up under his shoulders to his neck. He feels her hands on him and wants to linger, then remembers they’re not alone. _It’s really good to see you_ , he wants to say. He pulls away. 

“Uh… Jonas, this is Quinn.” She pauses again. He wonders if he’s made her nervous. “We used to work together. Back in the States.” 

“Right,” Jonas says, smiling at Carrie. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” which is a tell he isn’t expecting and he stands there, silent, weighing the implications in his mind, too distracted to offer something back. Something like “Likewise,” which would be a lie but at least a polite one. He watches as this man stretches his arm to her back and begins rubbing in small circles. And then as she slowly leans into him. 

“What… what brings you to Berlin?” Carrie finally asks when the silence has become unbearable. 

He pulls himself out of the trance. “Business.” 

“Not pleasure?” Jonas asks. 

“I wish.” 

“Well, perhaps you could stay for dinner? We have a roast chicken in the oven.” 

“No no no. I don’t, I don't want to intrude. I just wanted to say hi to Carrie.” 

“You should stay,” she says then, softly, imploring. “I’d like it if you stayed.” 

He pauses, considers her for a moment, and smiles. 

“Sure.” 

“I’m sorry, Peter—should I call you Peter? Or Quinn? Carrie is always calling her American friends by their last names.” 

“Peter is fine.” 

“Would you like something to drink? Tea? Wine?” 

“I’m fine, thanks.” 

“You’re sure? We were about to pour a glass.” 

“Yes, it’s fine.” 

Jonas nods. “Darling, come help me with the glasses.” 

Carrie glances up at him—inscrutable look, hint of a smile. “Make yourself comfortable,” she says quietly, gesturing toward the sofa. “We’ll be right back.” 

Quinn turns around, to the living room where Franny is still busily coloring away on the floor. She’s hardly looked up, which is a certain kind of blow to his ego, that he’s just some boring stranger to her.

He walks slowly over to the sofa and sits, smoothing his hands over the leather cushion. And then, like clockwork, Franny turns to him.

“Who are you?” she asks. Her voice is soft but assured, which doesn’t surprise him. 

“I’m Peter,” he says. 

“You know my mom?” 

“Yes. I knew you, too. You were very, very little though. About…” he lowers his hand just above the ground. “This big.” 

“Really?” 

“Really.” 

“Do you have a picture?” 

“Of you?” 

“Yeah.” 

“No, I don’t.” 

He looks up then and sees them coming back from the kitchen, three glasses of wine in hand. 

“Fran?” Carrie calls. The little girl turns, toward her mother. “It’s time to wash up for dinner.” Franny looks at Quinn again, then back at her mother and backs away, into the kitchen. 

Jonas comes back into the living room, balancing three glasses of wine.

“I’m sorry Peter, but I must insist,” he says, placing the glass on the table in front of him. “This is a very nice Pinot noir.” 

“Thanks.” 

Jonas sits and sets the other two next to him. 

“So, what brings you to Berlin this time of year? I think all of the Americans left at the end of October,” he says with a wry smile. 

“I suppose I’m always just a little bit late.”

“Well I’m glad you were able to find us. Carrie doesn’t get many American visitors these days.” 

“It’s a pretty long flight.” 

“That’s very true,” Jonas says. He takes the glass in front of him. “Do you like German reds?” he asks. “I think they must be a bit underrated, but I suppose I’m biased.” 

“I’m more of an Irish whiskey guy myself.” 

“So was Carrie when I met her. But… _slowly_ …” He lifts his eyebrows, and Quinn thinks he’s about to wink at him, but he doesn’t. 

Carrie comes in the through the kitchen again. He notices she’s not wearing shoes—just argyle socks, grey and pink. 

“Dinner should be ready in a few,” she says. 

“Perfect!” Jonas says, holding out a wine glass to Carrie. “Peter, have you ever had Carrie’s roasted potatoes?” 

Quinn pauses and shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” 

“I wasn’t much of a cook back in the day,” she explains. She sits down next to Jonas, curling her feet up under her. “Still not, though I’ve learned some.” 

“They are excellent. Best I’ve ever had from a non-German!” She laughs at that, so he does too. 

“Sounds delicious. Really, you didn’t have to.” 

“Stop it, of course we did,” she says, running her finger down the stem of her glass. “How often do I see you anyway?” she says, and it’s just this side of pointed. His face suddenly feels very hot. 

“Well,” Jonas continues. “Cheers to old friends.” 

“And new ones,” Carrie adds, looking at them both, one then the other. 

She extends her glass to Quinn, locks eyes with his, then turns to Jonas. “Cheers.” 

Quinn takes a sip, does his best satisfied face. He’s really not a wine person.

A moment later Franny calls out for her mother and Carrie turns, toward the kitchen, makes to set her wine glass down. 

“I got it,” Jonas says, placing a hand on her knee to keep her seated. “You stay with Peter. Catch up.” 

“Thanks,” she says tugging on his hand as he leaves. 

Quinn takes another sip of his wine, though he’s not sure why. He hates it, but it’s something to do, something to take his mind off the fact that this is the first time he’s been alone with her in two and a half years. 

He looks up just as Jonas passes out of view. Carrie turns to him then. 

“How long are you in town?” she asks. 

“Just tonight. I’m leaving tomorrow morning.” 

“Ramstein?” 

He hesitates. “Can’t say.” 

She smiles and remembers. “Right. Security clearance.”

“You look really good,” he says, placing the glass in front of him. He’s not sure if this is why he came, to assure himself that she did and then tell her himself. “Really, really good.” He does his best not to make it seem like a come-on, but she blushes anyway, rotates the glass a quarter-turn in her hand. 

“Thanks,” she laughs softly. “So do you.” It’s a lie, because he doesn’t. Look good, that is. He looks beaten and tired, some shell of a man she doesn’t even recognize. His face looks thin, his knuckles cut up. 

She’s not sure if this is how he always looked but maybe, back then, it just never registered. If it seemed normal, because everyone else looked that way, too. Trodden down. There are parts of her memory she knows backward and forward, like a favorite film, and parts she questions, that seem like a dream she had a dozen years ago. 

And now, here, he’s falling somewhere in the middle. This man in front of her, this man she used to know. And who knew her, too. She wonders how many of her secrets he still knows.

“You made yourself hard to find,” he says, another lie. 

They are just lying to each other now, exchanging untruths. 

“Not particularly.” 

For some reason she won’t let him have that, not after the way he left. 

“I can’t believe how big Franny’s gotten.” 

She laughs then, smiles to herself. “Yeah, me neither.” 

He pauses then to look at her, remembers that same smile, in Pakistan, when he came to pick her up, and they backed each other into corners. 

Just then Jonas emerges from the kitchen holding the roasting pan, the smell wafting into the living room. 

Carrie glances over. “Dinner,” she says. 

She rises and walks over to Quinn, standing as close as she’s gotten in years. He looks down at her. She’s close enough that he can smell her perfume, citrus and herbal, the same as it’s always been. 

She reaches out for his side and he almost backs away, embarrassed, but she takes his wine glass instead. “I’ll get you a beer for dinner.” 

. . . . 

About halfway through dinner she realizes this was a very bad idea, asking him to stay. She feels silly and childish for competing reasons and wonders if he can tell.  

She watches him eat, politely, compliment the fucking roasted potatoes shamelessly. Franny drills him with questions that he answers all very nicely and age-appropriately and all she can think the entire time is the conversation she’ll need to have with her afterward, about who this man is, and also who he is _not_. 

He disrupts her equilibrium, pulls her back into the shadows, which she guesses is exactly what he wants. She thinks that if he had his way they’d sneak away while Jonas made coffee, out the front door and never look back, fuck her in a public restroom while he covered her mouth with his hand. 

She hardly touches her food but downs the first glass of wine quickly, which Jonas notices and she guesses he does too. It’s all very embarrassing. She thought she wouldn’t care this much but she does and she hates herself for it. 

She feels so angry. She hates the way he showed up on her doorstep and reentered her life for a single fucking day, like he never left, like it was his own right to do so. She hates him because he took three years to do it, which seems lost on him still. 

She wonders if he’s thought about her or any of it, then knows of course he has, and hates him for that, too. 

Suddenly she realizes her hand is shaking and Jonas quietly slips his over her fingers, quieting, all the while engaging in a very lively debate with him about football teams. 

She catches Franny eyeing them both, back and forth, a match of sorts, and feels more protective of her than she ever has.  

She feels his eyes on her and looks away, to Jonas. 

“You want to tell?” 

“Hm?” 

“Peter has just asked how we met.” 

She looks back at him, finds something in his expression—a dare, or something kinder, she is unable to tell now. 

“I… um, we met at the pharmacy.” 

“The pharmacy?” he asks. 

“Yes,” she says then, a bit more defensively. 

“You’re not a _pharmacist_ , are you, Jonas?” is what she hears. 

“No, no no no. I was always very poor in math and science. No, I work in international law.” 

“Jonas is a partner at one of the firms in the city,” she adds. 

“It is my brother and I, really,” Jonas whispers playfully. 

“Anyway… um… Franny was very sick. I went to the pharmacy, but this was back when my German was still _pretty_ terrible. I couldn't read any of the labels. He was a few feet over—”

“Looking at the cold medicine. Terrible cold.” 

“I think he could tell I was struggling, because he came over and started translating.” 

“Yes, I said to her, ‘You know there are apps for this?’ and asked for her phone to show her.” 

“Well, he was very… polite.” 

“ _Charming_.”

She smiles. 

“Yes, charming.” 

“About two minutes later I realize Fran must be very, very sick because she is putting so many bottles and boxes into her basket. I ask her if she has a pediatrician.” 

“I didn’t.”

“Well, not yet.” 

“Jonas has eight nieces and nephews.” 

“So I told her which ones to stay away from.” 

“He was very helpful…. I guess that was about… almost two years ago?”

“Yes, January. Anyway a few days later she sends me an email. It said, ‘You may not remember me. I was the American woman at the pharmacy who didn’t know what to buy. Can I take you to coffee and properly thank you?’ The first thing I thought was, How did this woman find my email address? That’s what I wrote back: ‘How did you get my email?’” 

“Did I scare you?” she asks, laughing. 

“No! Just the opposite. I thought, I _must_ know this woman.” 

“He had paid for the translator app on my phone with his own account, so it was still there, saved in my phone.” 

“That is the official line, Peter. Anyway, I wrote back, ‘I can recommend you some great babysitters. Why don’t you take me out for a beer? That’s how we say thank you in Berlin.’” 

. . . . 

After dinner she tells him to go relax on the sofa and he can’t tell whether she’s being polite or if she just wants to get away from him. She hardly looked at him all through dinner. He wants to apologize but knows he never could. 

He walks over to the living room and sits in one of the upholstered armchairs and for the first time notices the amount of pictures around. Lots of photos, scattered.

There is one of Carrie and her father, recent, though he can’t put a finger on the year. He guesses 2012 and then realizes that’s not recent at all. She has one hand on his chest and the other draped on top of his shoulder. 

There is another of Frank holding Franny in the hospital. 

There are scattered portraits of different cities she’s visited. Beirut and Baghdad, Kabul, even Islamabad, miraculously. And some throughout Europe, he assumes from recent travels. Vienna and Brussels, Budapest, Prague, Florence. She’s traveled a lot. Almost more than he has, which seems backward, that she's not been still. 

A few of mother and daughter, one he’s seen, but the rest he hasn’t. Smiling together, Franny in a cap, Carrie’s eyes shrouded in sunglasses. One of Franny feeding ducks on the edge of a pond, and her mother crouched beside her, back to the camera. Two side-by-side of Franny blowing out candles: two on the left, three on the right. One of Franny hovering over her mother, sleeping in bed, as she holds a finger over her mouth, eyes wide. 

He is pleased not to find any of the three of them until he realizes it’s because he’s taken all of them. He was always there, just behind the lens. 

It’s enough to make him feel nauseous, the prospect of this man living the life he could have, walking in his shoes, sleeping in his bed, beside her. He thinks he might actually be sick and rises to find the bathroom. 

He finds himself walking carefully and silently, unconsciously, toward the kitchen, where they’re washing dishes, their voices drowned out by the running water. He can’t tell what they’re saying. He can only see them.

He can only see Carrie scrubbing the roasting pan, Jonas drying the wine glasses. Who knows what they’re talking about, but it’s a picture of fucking domesticity that singes a hole into some part of him that had never fully accepted it, until this moment. He could take a photograph. 

And he sees Jonas set the last wine glass in the cupboard and kiss Carrie’s cheek, walking up behind her, smoothing his palms over her shoulder blades, moving the hair from behind her neck, kissing her there. 

And he sees her move her hand down to his, which is wrapped around her waist, soapy water dripping onto the floor. Neither seems to mind. 

She says something he can’t discern and it takes all of himself to keep moving, past them, because it’s not him standing there. 

. . . .

She says “Thank you, for tonight,” as she runs the pan under the water, washes the soap away.  

“Your potatoes were magnificent,” Jonas says, combing his fingers through the end of her hair. “As usual.” 

She laughs. “I mean it, though. You were really great.” 

“So were you. It can’t have been easy.” 

She begins to dry the pan. 

“Maybe all your old American friends should come visit.” 

She hands him the pan, now dry, to put away. 

“We can knock them out all at once, easy.” 

She moves right past that, nothing more. 

“I’m going to start the coffee. Can you get Fran ready for bed?” 

“Sure.”

He turns and she grabs his hand again, the tips of his fingers, just barely grazing them, and he stops. She walks up to him, smooths the front of his shirt, staring at her hands there, not at him. 

“I’m really grateful” is all she says. 

He brushes the hair out of her face, tucks the loose strands behind both ears and says, “I know.” 

. . . . 

She’s not sure why but all the hate and aggression from dinner has washed out of her now, like dirt down a drain, disappeared. She walks back into the living room with an espresso for him but he’s not there and she’s actually resigned herself to the fact that he’s left. And she wonders if she'll ever see him again. 

“Sorry,” she hears him say. 

She turns, sees him adjust his shirt, which he’s left tucked in, miraculously. 

“Here.” She extends the cup to him. "Before it gets too cold.” 

“Where's Jonas?”

“Putting Franny to bed.” 

“Drew the short straw?”

“Actually, she’s surprisingly easy for her age.” 

He sips on the espresso as they stand there, facing each other. 

“Do you get back to the States often?” he asks her then, out of the blue. 

She pauses, seems to consider the answer. 

“Not really. Maybe once or twice since we moved out here. Maggie and the kids visit every summer. We make do.” 

“Yeah… seems like it.” 

He takes a final sip and she reaches out to take the cup and saucer from him. “Here, let me.” 

He doesn’t try to argue. 

“And you like it out here?” he asks. 

Perhaps this is why he came. To confirm she was good, doing ok, able to pick herself up after he’d taken a bulldozer to her life and plans. He’d never driven a woman out of the country before. It’s the first time he’s ever realized it, the sting. 

“Yes. Very much. Franny and I are… very happy here.” She looks up at him, his searching eyes, smiles shyly. 

How not to rub it in, when he looks so unhappy, so miserable, so weak and tired and old? 

“And you like… what you’re still doing?” 

“Yes.” 

Even then he’s not sure if it’s the truth. If he likes it because he’s good at it or because of the power or the thirst and hunger. Or if he’s just too ashamed or scared to admit otherwise and confront the years of waste he’s left behind. 

He wonders if he could: ever leave it behind. Like she has, and so easily. So perfectly. She is so _good_ at it, this life he’s wanted, this life he’s glimpsed now, for a few hours. He’s so envious, thinking of the photos, their ridiculous stories. He doesn’t have any of it. 

“Good. I’m glad, Quinn.” 

Outside it’s started to rain. He can hear it against the windows.

“You know, you never call me Peter.” 

“I’m not sure that’s your real name,” she says offhand, sarcastically. 

“No, I mean it.” He reaches out—he’s serious now—touches her arm, then retreats. “You’ve always called me Quinn.” 

Her eyes are wide, and he fears he’s embarrassed her. She looks down at the empty cup in her hands. “I don’t know why. I guess it just stuck in my head.” 

“You know what I think?” he says, and she looks up at him again. “I think you liked that you were the only one who called me Quinn.” 

She inhales, almost sharply, has to will her hands to keep from shaking again, because this time he’ll certainly notice. 

She averts his eyes, focuses behind him, and he turns, sees Jonas approaching from the hallway. He’s wearing glasses, thick black rims. Quinn turns back to Carrie. 

“Everything ok?” Carrie asks. 

“Yes. She just insisted on a bedtime story, that’s all.” 

“I should get going,” Quinn says to her, and she looks at him again. 

“Ok.” 

“You sure?” Jonas asks. 

“Yes. I told Carrie but I’m leaving early tomorrow. I don’t get too many opportunities for a good night’s rest, so…” 

“Well, it’s raining out now. Let us call you a taxi at least.” 

“No, you’ve done… more than enough. I like the rain anyway,” he says with a smile. 

Jonas turns to Carrie, takes the cup and saucer from her hand and places it on the table beside him. 

“Are you sure? The storms can be horrible this time of year.” 

“Really, it’s alright.” 

“You know he’s as stubborn as I am?” Carrie finally says, and he lets go. 

Then: “I’ll walk you out.” 

“Nice meeting you,” Quinn says, shaking Jonas’ hand. 

“Likewise. Call if you’re ever in the city again. We’d love to have you.” 

“Thanks.” 

Quinn turns and Carrie follows him. “There’s espresso on the stove,” she calls after Jonas as she descends the staircase.  

The pair of them—his suede shoes, her argyle socks—reach the bottom of the landing and Quinn collects his coat from the hook by the door. 

“You’re sure you don’t want to get a cab? Borrow an umbrella at least?”

“Nah, it doesn’t sound too bad anyway,” he says, zipping up his coat. 

“Alright.” 

She smiles. 

“Thanks for dinner,” he says. 

“Sure.” 

“It was really good to see you,” he continues, opening up the door, stepping out under the awning. He flips his collar up.

She just smiles—she’s run out of words to say to him now, can only focus on the rain drops collecting on the edges of his coat. 

“I’m sorry,” he says then, the wind picking up now, bringing the rain into the house. He looks back at her, the yellow light from the entry illuminating her figure, and he has to adjust his eyes. 

“I’m sorry, too.” 

It feels less like an acknowledgement of wrongdoing than of something they both knew all along and had only just now accepted. A mutual understanding, fading from view. 

He turns and starts, stuffs his hands into his pockets, feels the raindrops hit his face. Only a few seconds later he hears the door shut behind him, the unmistakable sound of her turning the deadbolt. He crosses the street, loses the light, and the world goes dark again.  

. . . . 

There is a fourth door, improbably, and behind it, they lie on the bed together, his arm wrapped around her, her head in the crook of his shoulder as she touches her fingers to his absentmindedly, thumb to fourth finger and then back again.  

“You’re quiet,” he says. 

“Just thinking…” 

“Yeah?” 

“Thinking about you…” she sighs. “Thinking about how happy I am with you, right now…. And how content our life is.” 

“I was just thinking about the same thing,” he says in mock surprise. 

She nudges him playfully. 

“I mean it.” 

“So do I,” he says, then continues quietly: “I was just thinking about how lucky I am to have found you after so many years. You and Franny. And how content our life is, together.” 

She lifts her head up and he meets her, kisses her on the lips, brushes the hair from her face again. 

She feels her eyelids growing heavy, her breathing slower and softer. 

“I don’t think I tell you enough that I love you,” she says.

“No, you say it enough.” 

It hurts her, how long it took her to ever say it, out loud, too long after she first felt it. She wishes she hadn’t lost that time, because the feeling, it’s intoxicating. Lying here is intoxicating, with his arms around her. She wants to fall asleep like this every night. 

“Well then…” she says, and lets the silence sit there, expand before them. 

Outside, the rain keeps falling. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Very much fueled by the eerily appropriate "So This Is Goodbye" by William Fitzsimmons.


End file.
